How often Simon, in the years before, Had watched green branches on a windy hill, Back in that country home, feeling no more Than such adventure as a young lad will Who muses on a day-dream, taking ease Upon his back, face lifted to the sun. They were familiar friends, these sturdy trees; How often he had watched them one by one. How often Simon, in the years to come, Would never see a green tree sway and toss With idle gesture on the hills of home, But he would trace the pattern of the Cross -- And turn and bury face against the sod, Seeing again the wounded Son of God. |